"If ever I win back what I have lost, these pampered parasites shall
suffer for their insolence," thought the young man, as he walked across
the broad Gothic hall of the castle, escorted by the grave old butler.
But he had not much leisure to think about his uncle's servants.
Another and far more important person occupied his mind, and that
person was his uncle's bride.
"Lady Eversleigh is at home?" he asked, while crossing the hall.
"Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the long drawing-room."
The butler opened a ponderous oaken door, and ushered Reginald into one
of the finest apartments in the castle.
In the centre of this room, by the side of a grand piano, from which
she had just risen, stood the new mistress of the castle. She was
simply dressed in pale gray silk, relieved only by a scarlet ribbon
twisted in the masses of her raven hair. Her beauty had the same effect
upon Reginald Eversleigh which it exercised on almost all who looked at
her for the first time. He was dazzled, bewildered, by the singular
loveliness.
"And this divinity--this goddess of grace and beauty, is my uncle's
wife," he thought; "this is the street ballad-singer whom he picked up
out of the gutter."
For some moments the elegant and accomplished Reginald Eversleigh stood
abashed before the calm presence of the nameless girl his uncle had
married.
Sir Oswald welcomed his nephew with perfect cordiality.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130